Pine Cones

I have sat in this corner often
because of its good lighting.
Today I unbend

from my book of poetry,
dazzled, the library full of light
extended by windows that reach to the ceiling.

In the corner, a Chinese fan palm
vents through a flaking stem
a spray of green intensity.

Outside the window, pine cones,
not the ones seen on the road,
small crushed porcupines on dead leaves,

but hanging delicately from the tip
of a fir branch, bells
almost, a knot.

Mouths perfectly suited to sucking the fibrous teats,
they hang on with their teeth
for the one life they know.

One afternoon, strings unloosed,
they will descend
to join their fellows,

the journey long and different
from whatever
they experience and owe.

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